We Will All Go Down Together Read Online Free PDF

family was Lady Glauce, prn. “GlOWzah.” She outlived her husband, Enzembler, who was executed under Queen Elizabeth the First, and acted as regent for their son Minion during his infancy. There were rumours that she brought Enzembler’s head home in a pomander bag, along with his body. After the Druirs were accused of being part of the Five-Family Coven, there were also rumours that other participants had seen Enzembler sitting next to her at the Sabbat, wearing the sort of ruff that was currently fashionable at King James’ court—the kind that looks like a big, starched platter. The kind that’d sure as hell keep your head on straight, if you were afraid of losing it.
    Nobody ever knew where Glauce came from, what her family name was, nothing; Enzembler brought her home after a long trip into the wilds of Dourvale, and her dowry was some sort of meteorite, or something, a “stane,” sometimes described as large enough to lie down on, or small enough to wear around your neck. The Druirs called it their luck. People said it helped them disappear when James’ witchfinders finally came for them. The only one left after that was Glauce’s second daughter Grisell, who married into the Rokes, and the Rokes fought James in court and won. Of the other “five families,” the Rusks, Devizes, and Glouwers were almost decimated by “fire and fees,” because in Scotland, they charged your relatives the cost of torturing and burning you. They were also the only three families with no noble blood.
    Torrance died of TB, consumption, the “wasting disease.” People used to say you got it from falling under the influence of fairies. And that I find I can sort of actually believe, now. Or start to, anyway.
    Because they’re not Tinkerbell. They’re not nice.
They’re no’ the same as you nor I, hen.
    Oh Jesus fuck. Fuck.
    All I ever wanted was a song to sing.
    September 8, 2004
    Last night, crashing at Fiona’s, I dreamed I was in bed with Ganconer:
his
bed, not mine, I somehow knew, not that I’ve ever seen the inside of where he lives, or anything. It was cold and damp, and the sheets were leathery and soft at once, like a split milkweed pod; I didn’t have to look around to know we must be someplace dark, someplace small and close, where everything smelled like sour apples just this side of ripe, already edging towards decay. And he just held me and looked down at me, his eyes suddenly so grey-brown they didn’t have even a trace of shine left in them—brown and grey and remote, like dusty pennies, and it made my stomach clench. Because I couldn’t see anything I recognized in him at all.
    He asked me if I wanted him to teach me a new song, and I said no, I liked the one I already had. He asked me if I knew there was a third version of it, and I said there wasn’t—there couldn’t be. I mean, I’d been down to the Trust, I’d done all the right research, done my homework. I’d seen those files for myself, goddamnit.
    And he just kept holding me, not smiling. Replying: “Well, but there would be, hen. If you wrote one.”
    So I woke up, struggling, shuddering, with that
smell
still all around me, everywhere, in the air. My eyes itching and burning like I’d rubbed them in the only thing I’m allergic to: leaf and wood mould, the kind you only find out in the forest, not downtown fucking Toronto. My back all running with sweat, shirt stuck to me when I stood up, and I saw, I saw
    By the door, down the hall, in the light leaking out of the bathroom, that feeble little wash of vanity-bulb glare, oh shit, oh Christ
    I saw that same face looking out at me from under the wall’s colour-drained Magritte paper, red hair hanging, teeth bright, grin sly. Saw it catch me looking and then eddy away, back into I don’t even know where.
    And that’s when I finally knew, like I know now, how it is. How it’s going to be.
    Because Fiona was still asleep, okay? Like maybe ten feet away. I could hear her and the baby